Page 12 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

I want a championship for the team and a college future for him, and this year we have a real chance at both.

"Morning, Coach." He gives me that easy grin, the one that makes adults like him before he's said much of anything.

"Cole." My voice comes out level and ordinary. Good. “Is Coach Gene in yet?"

"Yes, sir. In his office."

"Good." I step aside to let him pass.

He lifts two fingers off the bag strap by way of salute and heads down the wing toward the main corridor, no hurry in him anywhere, and for a moment I watch him go, proud to the brim. Head Coach Gene and I have both worked our asses off to get him this far.

Whatever else today is, I can still help that kid get where he wants to go.

Behind him, the locker-room door swings again.

Eli Navarro, a young human boy, comes out with his hood up and his head down.

He cuts along the far wall, tight to the cinder block, shoulder practically dragging the paint. He's moving fast, that stiff, busy walk kids deploy when running would attract attention. I frown as I look at him. There’s something about his attitude that sets me on edge. He doesn't look at Cole. He doesn't look at me. His bag is clamped under one arm, and he keeps his face turned toward the floor.

“Hi, Eli,” I call after him.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't slow. Doesn't turn. Doesn't so much as hitch a step. I watch his hunched back retreat up the wing, waiting for him to glance over his shoulder, but he disappears around the corner into the main corridor.

I stay where I am, frowning. Two seasons that kid has been team manager. Two seasons of six a.m. buses and taped ankles and water bottles racked before anyone thinks to ask, every player's gear size in his head, every stat in his notebooks, the most reliable person on my sideline, even counting the coaching staff.

And in two seasons, Eli Navarro has never once failed to return a greeting. Not once. The kid says "morning, Coach" when he's soaked, when we've lost, when he's got a fever and shouldn't have come in at all.

Maybe he didn't hear me. But I don't like the way he was holding himself, shoulders hunched and face hidden, trying to get through a nearly empty corridor without anyone looking at him.

He could be sick. Worried about a test. I don't know, and I don't intend to guess. I'll find a quiet minute at practice and ask him. Away from the players, where he won't have to worry about anybody overhearing.

The frown is still on my face when the front doors open at the far end of the building.

I feel it before I hear it. That's the part no lore ever prepared me for. The hum under my skin lifts, swells, turns over into warmth, inside-out heat, rolling up through my chest and out along both wings to the very tips. I turn toward the entrance before I get a clear look down the corridor.

Then the sound arrives. Heels on terrazzo. Quick, clicking, familiar enough that I don't need to see her face to know it’s her.

She comes through the doors with the November draft, coat cinched, chin up, curls loose, lipstick red against her fair skin.

Rory.

For one stupid second, I forget where I'm standing. She looks just the same as she always did. Sexy, quirky, adorable and perfect, and I want to cross the corridor and take her in my arms as if waking up without her never happened.

Of course, I don’t. It would be insanity.

I stay put. My fingers tighten inside the leather gloves, the mark safely out of sight while the rest of me warms at the sight of her.

So much for keeping my mind on work.

Chapter 5

Rory

The plan is simple. In through the front doors, straight down the main corridor, into my office, and then zero contact with the athletics wing until June. Possibly ever. I have coffee in my travel mug, fresh lipstick on, and every intention of behaving like a woman who can survive an awkward Monday.

The plan survives four seconds, tops.

Because whoever laid out this school gave the front doors an unobstructed view of the athletics wing, no curves, no mercy, and standing at the far end of that hall, next to the locker room, is seven feet of gray granite in a team hoodie.